


Un-American

by Laura JV (jacquez)



Category: due South
Genre: Bisexuality, First Time, M/M, queerfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-21
Updated: 2008-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquez/pseuds/Laura%20JV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gun-toting artists, Tony's pizza, and a guy named Jesus conspire to make Ray's life queerer than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un-American

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks go out to: Debra Fran Baker, for ideastorming and beta; Basingstoke, for sanity checks and beta.
> 
> For Che Morrison Bell, for reasons best left unexplored, and thanks to the boys of UnAmerican, for unabashed sloganism.

"Stupid kid," said Ray, slamming his hand on the hood of the GTO. "Stupid fucking punk kid." Fraser gave him a queer look, so Ray stuck a finger straight between Fraser's eyes. "Do not look at me like that. He is a stupid fucking punk kid, and he is going to end up dead if he is not careful. Which of course he will not *be*."

"He's quite young, Ray," said Fraser. "Perhaps he will grow out of it."

"You do not *grow* *out* of stupidity," Ray said. "I should know; I been stupid my whole life."

"You are *not*," said Fraser, and now he looked mad. Ray slammed his hand on the hood again and looked at the back of the black- and - white. He could see the kid's face, staring back at him out of the window, and then the car pulled away and Ray couldn't see the kid for the glare. "Stupid fucking punk kid," he said, again.

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "Ray, I hate to--I thought I understood from Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski that you were a punk once. "

Ray laughed, a short sharp laugh. "Stella said that?" He shook his head. "Do punks become cops? No. No they do not, unless they have a highly developed sense of irony, which I was never so good at. Cops, Fraser, are *unpunk*." He sighed and then grinned. "I was a fake punk, though. I did the hair thing and the clothes thing and the music thing."

"Ah."

Ray stared off into the distance, where the black -and-white had disappeared to. "But if you mean do I understand that kid, hell yeah I understand that kid." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I was angry and young and poor once." He frowned. "Guess I'm still angry, huh, Fraser?"

"Indeed," said Fraser. "Would you like to go get some dinner?"

Ray crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his lips together, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good."

They went to McDonald's, even though Fraser complained that McDonald's was not, in fact, food. They ate outside on the curb, and Ray fed his entire Big Mac to Diefenbaker and then picked at his fries until they were cold. "My job sucks," he said, and got up and threw them in the trash.

"Why?" asked Fraser.

Ray shrugged. "I'll drive you home. Come on."

On the drive to the Consulate, he said, "The thing is, you're supposed to be able to trust the police, Fraser. You're supposed to be able to believe in us. But how can Joe Schmoe believe in us when we don't believe in us?"

Fraser frowned at him. "Does this relate to the young man we arrested?"

"Yeah," said Ray. "Yeah, because we should've been *helping* him. Someone should've been *helping* him."

"Ray, he assaulted two men with a baseball bat."

"Yeah, because they stalked his boyfriend and scared him to death! And the police did *nothing*, Fraser. *Nothing*!" He pounded on the steering wheel, and the car swerved dangerously. Two drivers honked at him, holding down their horns. Ray flipped them off and hit the gas. "When did we get so that we do *nothing* when some kid is that scared? And when the hell did we get so that some other kid thinks it's better to go vigilante than to trust us?"

"Ray --"

"No," said Ray. "I don't wanna hear it. I know the reason why, OK? It's because he's young and scared and poor and Hispanic and queer, and because cops do not care about poor queer Hispanics in this city or in any other. It's un-American to care about people like him, and he knows it, and it's just fucking wrong."

"Ray--"

"Stupid fucking punk kid," Ray said. "Stupid, stupid kid." He pummeled the wheel again. "This is what I get for going undercover, Fraser. Everyone *knew* Kowalski would give you a fair shake even if you were queer. They *knew* that. But where is Kowalski? Goneski, that's where he is. They got no-one with me under." He stopped at a red light and glared at Fraser. "Not that I'm queer. 'Cause I'm not. But I had a couple friends in college. And we stayed friends. So they could trust me. Not that I'm queer myself."

"Ray--"

"'Cause I'm not. Although." He frowned and shut his mouth tight. Dief licked his ear.

"Ray, it's not your fault."

The light changed, and Ray peeled out without answering. When he pulled up in front of the Consulate, Fraser said, "He broke the law, Ray. You had to arrest him."

Ray shook his head. "I should've let him go," he said. "A lot of cops won't arrest the guys who go after queer guys with baseball bats. Did you know that, Fraser?" He shook his head. "I should've let him go." He jerked his head towards the door.

Fraser and Dief got out of the car and Ray took off for home as fast as he could. Halfway there he took a right instead of a left and went to Stella's place.

"Ray," she said, and then frowned and reached out, brushed her fingers through his hair. "What's wrong?"

"Had to arrest a kid today," he said.

She tilted her head to the side. "You didn't want to."

He shrugged, glad she knew, glad she hadn't had to ask. "Name's Luis Clemente. Want you guys to go easy on him."

"What'd he do?"

Ray didn't answer, and she sighed. "One of your kids, huh?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

She kissed his cheek. "I'll see what I can do, Ray. No promises."

"Thanks, Stell." He smiled at her.

"You want to..." she said, stepping aside so that he could get into her apartment if he'd wanted to.

"Always," he said, "but it never solves anything."

She nodded and turned to go inside. "Stella," he said.

"Yes?"

"You know that thing. About me." He reached out and touched her shoulder. She turned her head and pressed her cheek to his hand. "I wanted to tell Fraser, but I couldn't."

She sighed. "Which thing about you, Ray? There are so many."

He looked away. "I couldn't tell him I'm queer, Stella. I just couldn't."

"You want me to tell him."

Again with the knowing. "You told him I was a punk," he said, and she smiled.

"Yeah," she said, "I did. But I think this you have to tell him yourself." She pulled away and went inside.

"Stella," he said to the closed door, "I think I'm in love with him." The door didn't answer. He thought about pounding on it until Stella came back and gave him an exasperated look and he got all tongue-tied and they ended up making love in her bed and spending tomorrow morning saying "I-still-love-you-but" and "We-shouldn't-have", but instead he went home.

Home had the couch and the beer.

And his mom.

"Hi, Mom," he said, surprised.

"Oh, Stanley!" She kissed him. "I just came by to drop off dinner, and your friend Constable Fraser called and so I invited him to dinner because you shouldn't be alone--"

"Mom--"

"--but he said you'd just dropped him off and he said you'd seemed angry and he wanted to check that you were OK and so I thought I'd stay and see how you were."

"I'm fine, Mom. I just went to see Stella on my way home."

"Oh, honey," his mom said, and kissed him again. "I'm so glad you two are putting yourselves back together. Shame it took the divorce to work things out, but--"

"Mom, we're not. We're not getting back together--"

"--better late than never, Stanley dear. Dinner's in the oven." She kissed him again and headed for the door.

"Tell Dad I said hi," he said, and the door slammed after her.

Beer, he decided, was not nearly strong enough. This was a whisky night if ever there was a whisky night, and he had a nearly-full bottle of Glen Ord.

* * *

Hangovers. Ray hated hangovers. "Ow," he said, rubbing his temples, and Fraser frowned at him.

"Ray?"

"Nothing," he said, making a beeline for Frannie's desk drawer, where she kept her Advil and Tampax.

 

"Ray, are you all right?" Fraser looked concerned.

"Mmmf." He found the Advil and shook three into his hand. "Coffee now, dammit," he said, and took off for the break room.

"Ray! Ray!"

Fraser was following him. Calling. Yelling. Making his head throb. That coffee could not come fast enough.

"Ray. Ray." Fraser wrapped one hand around the back of Ray's neck and pressed the other against Ray's forehead.

"Frase. What are you doing?"

"Checking to see if you have a fever, Ray. You're obviously ill."

Ray shook Fraser's hands off. "I am not *ill*, I am *hung* *over*."

"Oh," said Fraser, and dropped his hands to his sides. "Oh." He rubbed an eyebrow. "Are you--did you--are you still upset about the young man from yesterday?"

Ray stuck the Advil in his mouth and slurped some coffee to wash them down with. "Yes," he said. "Among other things."

Now Fraser looked even more concerned. "Anything I can help with?"

"Nope," said Ray, heading back to the bullpen. "Frannie! The Clemente kid, the one I arrested last night, find out how he is, OK?"

"Did you go in my *desk*?" Frannie asked, slamming her drawer shut.

"Needed some Advil, OK?"

"A person's desk is their own private area, Ray," she said.

"Frannie, you are all grown up. I hope by now you know what private areas are and are not."

She made a face at him.

God, he hated hangovers.

He sat down at his desk and tried to do some paperwork, but the letters kept blurring together. He caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, and a doughnut and two paper cups full of water appeared at his elbow.

"You should drink, Ray," Fraser said. "Hangovers are mostly dehydration."

"Mmmf," said Ray, through one of the cups of water and a mouthful of doughnut. He swallowed. "Fraser, if we weren't in the bullpen, I would kiss you right now."

He felt himself blush, but Fraser only said, "It's the thought that counts, Ray" and took some of the paperwork to work on himself.

"Freak," Ray said, and Fraser smiled his funny crooked smile at him.

His hangover felt better. Must be the Advil kicking in. He fed the rest of the doughnut to Dief.

* * *

Ray rooted around in the pile of garbage for his glasses. Slimy banana peel. Empty spaghetti sauce jar. Collection of old Genesis porn magazines, tied into a bundle with twine. Two more slimy bananas peels. His glasses, one lens slimy with banana residue and the other shattered.

"Jesus hates me," he said.

"Jesus doesn't hate you," Fraser said, and he sounded upset.

"Didn't know you were religious," Ray said, glaring at him.

"I'm *not*," said Fraser.

"Then what do you care if Jesus hates me?"

"I--nevermind."

"'Jesus doesn't hate you'," Ray said. "You need a life, Fraser." He looked at his glasses mournfully. "And I need new glasses."

Fraser sniffed the air and then wrinkled his nose slightly. "We both need showers and a change of clothing."

"You need your head examined," Ray said, and rubbed the banana-slimed but unbroken lens of his glasses on his shirt. "Remind me again why I listened to you when you said to go down the garbage chute, Princess?"

"Princess?"

Ray made little don't -you-know motions with his hands . "Star Wars, the garbage chute--hell. Just answer the question, Fraser."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow and looked at the ceiling. "Because, Ray, we were being shot at and there was no other safe route out of the building."

"If there's no other safe route out of the building, how come the wolf took the fire escape?" Ray shook some lettuce out of his hair. "Garbage chute, my ass. Come on, let's get back to the station and change."

Diefenbaker met them at the car, but declined to ride back to the station with them. Ray supposed he really couldn't blame him. They were both pretty ripe.

The locker room at the station smelled like moldy cheese and rusted pipes, but it was a distinct improvement over the smell of his clothes. "Pleasepleaseplease," Ray said as he opened his locker, and then made fists of triumph. He'd remembered to replace his change of clothes after the last time Fraser had gotten him dirty. He put them on the bench, stripped down and stuck the slimy clothes into a plastic bag, and went to shower.

When he got back, Fraser was staring blankly into the locker Ray had talked Welsh into letting him get after that time they ended up covered in cooking oil. "Frase?"

Fraser shook himself. "Sorry, Ray. Woolgathering, I'm afraid." He stripped down and headed to the showers. Ray got dressed and went up to the bullpen.

"Ray," said Frannie, "there's a kid here to see you. Says his name is Jesus Alvarado."

"Jesus who?" He looked at his desk, where a kid maybe eighteen, nineteen years old was standing.

"You Vecchio?" the kid said, as he approached.

"Yeah. Can I--whoa!" He jumped back as Jesus took a swing at him. He ducked the next swing and caught his arm. Jesus was younger and faster, but he was skinny and short and inexperienced and Ray had thirty pounds, several inches, and a lot of time subduing perps on him. Ray wrestled Jesus up against some file cabinets, his knees hard on the backs of Jesus's spread thighs, pressing Jesus's clenched fist up between his shoulderblades. "What the hell's your problem?" he said, and Jesus tried to twist out of the hold. Ray yanked up on the arm he was holding.

"My problem is you cops, you do nothing when these fucking assholes say they gonna kill me, but Luis helps me out and you arrest his ass."

"You Luis Clemente's boyfriend?"

"That's not your fucking business."

Ray bounced his knees against Jesus's thighs. "Luis Clemente beat two guys with a baseball bat. What they did or didn't do to him or to you I don't know about. What I gotta do is my job, which includes getting bat-toting thugs off the streets." He let Jesus go, and watched him rub his wrist angrily. "Go on. Get out of here before I arrest you for assaulting a cop."

Jesus went.

"Jesus," said one of the patrolmen in the room. "What'd you let the fag go for, Vecchio?"

"You want me to break your face, Whitman?"

"I'm just saying," said Whitman, flipping his wrist at Ray.

"I'm just saying," said Ray, "fuck with me and I will saw off your legs, you got me?" Whitman blinked and then turned away. Ray glared at his back.

"Ray," said Fraser, and Ray looked over at him. Fraser was in the brown uniform that he almost never wore. "You forget to put a spare in your locker, Frase?"

"I'm afraid so. Can you drop me by a dry-cleaner's tonight?"

"Yeah, sure."

"What was--" Fraser waved his hand in the air.

"You saw that?"

"Yes."

"That was Whitman being an ass."

"I meant before that, Ray."

"Oh. The kid. Jesus Alvarado. The one the Clemente kid--you know. Not too happy I arrested his boyfriend." He ran a hand through his hair and grinned. "Told you Jesus hates me."

Fraser looked upset again. "They're not pronounced the same at all, Ray. GEE-ZUS and HEY--"

"Fraser, shut up."

"Ray, I don't think--"

"No. No. Look. Yesterday sucked. Today has sucked. Tomorrow's gonna suck. You can let me have one lousy joke, Frase."

Fraser shut his mouth. Ray closed his eyes. "I'll stop at the dry-cleaner's and then we can get dinner, OK?"

"OK," Fraser said.

"Come on."

* * *

Ray shoved a forkful of lasagne into his mouth and thought about telling Fraser. _Hey, Frase, remember how I said I wasn't queer? I was lying._ Right, that'd fly real well--how about _Hey, Fraser, you ever thought about guys?_ Only then Fraser would say _About guys?_ or, even worse, _All the time, Ray. In what particular context do you mean?_

"Fraser?"

Fraser looked up from his chicken. "Yes, Ray?"

"What Whitman was saying."

"Yes?"

"A lot of cops think like that."

"I've encountered the attitude a few times."

"If--if you think like that, Fraser, I don't think I can work with you. Anymore, I mean. Just so you know."

Fraser was quiet for a minute. He pushed the chicken around on his plate and then looked at Ray. "I don't think--I don't think, Ray, that I have any right to tell anyone who to love. Or judge them for it."

"Well, good." Ray smashed his lasagne into mush. "Because. And this doesn't get around, you hear? You don't even tell the wolf this." He waited until Fraser nodded to continue. "OK. Because I'm queer. I mean. Sometimes I like guys. So." He sat back and threw his fork on his plate. "Just so you know."

Fraser was quiet again, and then he said, "Thank you for telling me, Ray."

Ray snorted. "You're welcome."

* * *

"Does Stella know?" asked Fraser, looking at Ray from across the GTO.

"Stella knew first," said Ray. "Stella's known longer than anyone but me." He rested a clenched fist on his knee. "Look, you OK with this?"

"It's a trifle odd," said Fraser.

"You mean queer," Ray said, looking down at his fist.

"Well, more odd, Ray. Or perhaps weird."

"Weird. Fuck yeah, I'm weird. I'm a bisexual fake-punk cop, Fraser, weird is my middle name."

"A freak," Fraser said, and Ray started to laugh.

"OK, OK, a freak." He raised his fist, stabbed it at the roof of the car. "Freak pride!"

And then Fraser was laughing with him.

"Look," Ray said, when they were done laughing. "You wanna rent a movie or something? We don't have to work tomorrow."

"I'd like that," Fraser said.

"The wolf'll be OK without you?" They hadn't seen Dief since he'd taken off after the garbage chute encounter.

"I have no doubt," said Fraser, and Ray pulled away from the curb.

"Star Wars," he said. "You don't know Star Wars well enough to get the garbage chute thing, so we'll rent Star Wars."

"I'd rather rent Slap Shot," said Fraser.

"We rented that *last* time. We rented that the last *two* times."

"I like Slap Shot," Fraser said.

"You're such a conformist," Ray said. "A Canadian hockey movie conformist."

"And you're not a conformist? *Star* *Wars*? Really, Ray."

"I," said Ray, "am a bad ass, and bad asses can watch Star Wars all they want."

"Conformist."

"Bad ass! And I'm still renting Star Wars, because it's my card. He who has the card picks the movie."

 

"He who has the card pays for the movie," said Fraser, and smiled that crooked smile.

They were good.

* * *

"This is supposed to be postal workers," Ray said. "Postal workers, Fraser, not artists. Artists are not supposed to break out the automatic weapons."

Fraser flipped over on his stomach and peeked around the platform while Ray reloaded. "Art can be a quite stressful career, Ray. I knew a painter once who took up moose herding rather than deal with critics."

"That's moose herding, Fraser, not mass slaughter. I mean, you're an artist, and then one day you think, hey, fuck art, let's kill?" He threw his head back and yelled "CHICAGO PD. PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS."

He winced as another volley of bullets hit the marble block he and Fraser were hiding behind, sending shrapnel spraying outwards.

"I don't think they're going to put down their weapons, Ray."

"You think?" He squinted up at the lights through his newly-lensed glasses. "Time to embrace violence, Fraser. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"One."

"Two."

"Three!"

Ray split towards a sculpture on the right, knowing Fraser was going to shimmy along on his stomach towards the bad guys and then throw some of those nice chunks of masonry at them and then he would shoot their guns out of their hands like a movie cowboy and then Diefenbaker would knock into them from behind. Simple plans were the best plans, and Fraser always knew what he was planning.

"Come and see the violence inherent in the system," Ray muttered, as the first chunk of masonry hurtled through the air and hit the ground in front of the homicidal artists.

Time to embrace the violence.

Fraser was throwing stones and pieces of pottery, and Ray jumped up and took aim and fired, and Dief slammed into the artists with about a hundred pounds of wolfly fury, and suddenly there were two beret'd artists down on the ground, holding their shattered hands in front of their throats while Dief snarled at them.

Score.

"You'll never sculpt in this town again," said Fraser, and Ray had to try to handcuff the guys through dying of laughter.

One of the artists, the one with blue hair, bit his lip. "I'll suck you off if you let me go," he said, then glanced at Fraser. "Him, too."

"No," said Ray.

"Why not?" The artist opened his eyes wide and tried to shimmy.

"Because sex with you would suck," said Ray. "Not to mention I'm a cop."

The artist whimpered. "My dad's a cop, too," he said. "Couldja let me go now? My dad's a cop. I swear I'll be good."

Ray just stared at him.

"Ray," whispered Fraser. "His rights."

"Right," said Ray, and Mirandized the pair while Fraser collected evidence.

The uniforms arrived and hauled the guys away, and Ray watched them, shaking his head. "Sexual bribery and nepotism. You believe that, Fraser?"

"I've got plaster of Paris on my uniform, Ray," Fraser said. "And oil paints." Dief barked at him, and Ray thought it sounded like the wolf was laughing.

"So we'll go back to the station and change."

"I used the only clothes I had in my locker yesterday."

"So we'll go to the Consulate."

"My other uniform is at the dry-cleaner's."

"What about the brown one?"

Fraser winced. "Yes, well, Inspector Thatcher was rather upset about that," he said.

"Don't wanna get Ice Queened. Gotcha. Civvies?"

"I'd have to go back to the Consulate." Fraser brushed at his chest, frowning.

"Where the Ice Queen holds court."

"Not to mention Turnbull discussing my desecration of the uniform." He looked at his smeared fingers and then wiggled them at Ray. "Obi-Ray Kenobi, you're my only hope."

Ray looked up at the ceiling to keep from slapping Fraser for that one. "OK. So come back to my place. I bet I have some stuff that will fit you."

"Thank you," Fraser said.

* * *

Ray pulled a box down from his closet and opened it up. "Here we go." He took out some jeans and a t-shirt and shook them out. "These should fit."

"Surely those aren't yours," Fraser said, and Ray glared at him.

"They belonged to a friend, OK? Just put them on."

Fraser took the clothes from him and began to strip out of his uniform. Ray stared at the wall and tried not to think about Fraser half-naked in his bedroom.

"Your friend was a bit taller than I am," Fraser said, and Ray looked and found Fraser rolling up the cuffs of the jeans. The jeans were a little loose; the t-shirt a little tight.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, he had a few inches on you."

Fraser picked up his uniform and undershirt and frowned. "I think the oil paints have permanently ruined this one," he said. "Do you have any scissors?"

"What for?"

"Well, it's not as if it's entirely hopeless, Ray. I can use the buttons and so forth as spares."

"Oh. Yeah." Ray rummaged around in his nightstand drawer for his nail scissors. "Here you go."

"Thank you kindly."

They went out to the living room, and Fraser snipped industriously at his uniform while Ray ordered pizza.

"And you tell Tony not to mess with my pineapple, you hear? You hear me? I dunno. Use the Force. Tell him Ray said he was gonna kick his ass. Yeah, my place." He hung up and looked at Fraser. "The undershirt toast, too?"

"Yes."

"Here, give it to me." Ray held out his hand and Fraser gave him the shirt. "If you're going to recycle, Fraser, be not half-assed about it." He tested the fabric with his hands, then pulled out his keys and started ripping through the stitching on the seams. "Scrub this out with soap and let it dry. Will make great rags for washing the car or scrubbing the floor." He tore the shirt down a side seam.

"Excellent idea, Ray."

"Yeah, I'm full of those." He picked at the stitching with his keys. "Dressing you up like James Dean wasn't one of 'em, though."

"James Dean?"

"Rolled jeans. T-shirt. Not your usual look, Frase."

"Ah."

"And I always had a thing for James Dean."

"Oh."

Ray looked at Fraser out of the corner of his eye. Fraser had stopped snipping at his buttons and was looking at Ray. There was a little wrinkle on Fraser's forehead and he looked a bit puzzled.

"Ray?"

"Yes?"

"Was that a come-on?"

Ray yanked at a seam. "Depends. Freak you out?"

"No."

"Then it was."

"Ah."

Fraser went back to snipping, and Ray ripped the shirt into several pieces and took them to the kitchen to wash in the sink.

The doorbell rang, and he heard Fraser go to answer it. "Fraser! Get money out of my wallet. American money."

"Ray--"

"American money, Fraser, I'm serious."

"Very well."

"Put the pizza on the coffee table and tell Sandor to come in here."

Fraser and Sandor came in, sans pizza. "You wanted to see me, Ray?" asked Sandor.

"Yeah. Want you to spread something around for me." He frowned. "You and Tony both, you hear me? You tell the boys that Kowalski says to see Vecchio over at the 2-7."

"I don't hear you, Ray."

"Give him an extra twenty, Fraser."

Fraser opened Ray's wallet and gave Sandor a twenty.

"Now I hear you," Sandor said.

"And you tell me why you weren't telling them that before."

Now Sandor looked faintly shocked. "You're *undercover*, Ray. Don't want to make you or the guy you're covering for dead. What am I, scum? You think Tony and me would do that to you?"

Ray crossed his arms. "Fair enough. Get the hell out of here."

"Nice to see you, too, Ray," said Sandor, and took off.

"Tell Tony I said hi!" Ray yelled after him, then walked into the living room and opened the pizza box. "Aw, hell."

"Ray?" said Fraser, and Ray turned to find him standing there with two plates in his hands and that wrinkle between his eyes again.

"Tony left off the pineapple."

"Oh." Fraser smiled and put the plates down, and then his hands were warm on Ray's shoulders and his mouth cool and dry on Ray's own.

Well.

Fuck.

OK.

Ray leaned into him and opened his mouth, pressing his tongue against Fraser's lips until they opened to him, pressing Fraser back with his weight and his hands on Fraser's hips until Fraser hit the wall.

"Ray," Fraser murmured into his mouth, and tangled the fingers of one hand in Ray's hair.

Ray ran his fingers over Fraser's fly and bit Fraser's tongue gently and leaned as close as he could and still leave room for his hand to move.

"Ray," Fraser said, turning his head away. "Ray, stop."

Ray stopped, wondering if he should back off. Fraser hadn't let go of him; Fraser was hard under his palm.

Fraser touched his tongue to his lower lip and smiled at Ray. "These are the only clean clothes I have," he said, and Ray slid his hand to Fraser's hip and grinned.

"Better?"

"No," said Fraser, and started laughing.

"Pizza," Ray said.

"With no pineapple."

Ray backed off and went to put slices on the plates. He split the pizza three ways and put one-third on the floor for Dief. Then he sat close to Fraser on the couch and knew he was grinning like a fool every time Fraser bumped him with his knee.

He didn't care.

"You wanna stay here?" he asked as he started on his third slice, and Fraser smiled.

"Only if you take me to the dry-cleaner's to pick up my uniform tonight."

"Deal."

"Deal," said Fraser, and kissed him again. Fraser tasted like ham and tomato sauce and oregano, and Ray guessed he tasted the same way. "We should finish the pizza first."

"Fuck the pizza," said Ray.

* * *

Fraser, stretched out naked underneath him, was about the best sight for sore eyes Ray had seen in about five years. "Fraser," he said, "pornography needs you. You've been depriving the world."

And Fraser threw back his head and laughed, and that made his shoulders tense and his chest come up off the mattress a little, and Ray ran his hands over Fraser's ribs and muscles and nipples, and bent down and kissed Fraser slowly and nastily on the mouth.

Fraser slid his hand between them and wrapped it around Ray's dick, and Ray shuddered and nipped Fraser's lip. "Come on," he whispered. "Harder, Fraser." He thrust into Fraser's hand, clamped his knees on either side of Fraser's hips, felt Fraser's dick sliding along his stomach. "Come on," he said, feeling sweat beginning to slick Fraser's palm.

"Ray," said Fraser. "Ray, about Sandor--"

Ray kissed him again and slid his right hand in next to Fraser's, wrapped it around Fraser's dick and squeezed.

Fraser gasped into his mouth and then pulled back. "About *Sandor*, Ray--"

Ray sat up. "Fraser, I've got your dick in my hand and you want to talk about Sandor?"

Fraser stopped moving and said, "Well, yes," in that 'isn't it obvious?' tone of voice.

"You're unhinged."

"It would be a more efficient use of our time, Ray."

Ray rolled off of him and got out of bed. "That's it. I'm not having sex with you."

Fraser propped himself up on an elbow. "Ray?"

"I am not having sex with you, Fraser. Not if you're going to talk about Sandor. Or about work. Or about anything unrelated to sex."

"I'm just curious, Ray. You asked them to tell the boys--"

"I know what I asked." Ray sat down next to Fraser on the bed. "Tony and Sandor, they opened up the pizza place around the same time I became a cop." He ran a hand over Fraser's chest. "They give me information, I give them money, they get more information out there for me."

Fraser traced circles over Ray's hipbone. "They knew you before you went undercover." He frowned and closed his eyes. "They knew you were safe to send homosexuals with legal trouble to."

Ray laughed. "Hell, how do you think we met?" He wrapped his hand around Fraser's. "A lot of guys go to Tony and Sandor first, before they go to the cops."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He made a mock-surprised face. "Oh!"

"Oh," said Fraser. "They're..."

"Yes. Welcome to the Queer Quilting Circle, Benton Fraser."

"I can quilt," said Fraser, and reached up and pulled Ray back down to him. "But I also have other talents."

"Oh, I bet you do."

And Fraser smiled and slid his hand back over Ray's dick and Ray kissed him again, and Fraser tightened his grip and began to jerk Ray off, hard and fast. Ray moved to straddle him, to get a better angle where he could thrust into Fraser's hand. He felt skin, and sweat, and the firm press of their bodies together, and then Fraser let go of his dick and pulled him in close, rubbing hard against him, and he felt his entire body seize and shake.

Trembling, he sat up. Fraser was flushed and drawn taut below him, his reddened skin marked with translucent streaks of semen. Ray smoothed some of the streaks out, smeared them over Fraser's skin, and then slid backwards until he could take Fraser's dick in his mouth.

Largish. Uncut. Musky, in a clean kind of way. Ray wrapped one hand around the base and enclosed the rest of it with his mouth. He pressed his tongue against the underside and then sucked gently until his tongue clicked back from the pressure.

Fraser slid his fingers into his hair, and Ray grinned and did it again, and suddenly Fraser was slamming up into his mouth, fucking his mouth hard and fast and sweet.

And then Fraser grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him away and shot into the air and into Ray's open mouth and over his face.

"Dammit!" Ray jerked away and groped around for the edge of the sheet.

"Ray?" asked Fraser. "Ray, are you all right? What's the problem?"

Ray found a sheet corner and wiped his face. "The problem is that when you come on my face, my mascara runs. That's what the problem is, Fraser."

"I'm so sorry, Ray."

Ray glared at him. "You are *not*."

Fraser kept a straight face for a good two seconds before he chuckled and said, "Well, no, not really."

Ray used the unsullied part of the sheet corner to clean Fraser up a little, and flopped down on the bed. He felt like sleeping for a couple dozen centuries.

"Ray?"

"Go to sleep, Fraser."

"Ray, about Sandor."

Ray rolled over to look at Fraser, who looked wide-awake. "What about him NOW?"

"You asked him to spread the word that Ray Vecchio was the man to see with the police."

"So?"

"Francesca is going to kill you," Fraser said.

"Frannie can bite me."

"She may well, if she finds out you and I are--whatever we are."

"'Whatever we are,'" Ray said. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked over at Fraser. "Fraser," he said, "you wanna be my special friend without pants?"

"Can I be your friend with pants as well, Ray?"

"You can be any kind of friend you want."

"And the friend whose pants I borrowed--"

"Was a friend without pants."

"So, if I lay claim to those pants--"

"Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"Go to sleep."

"Yes, Ray."

Ray closed his eyes and snuggled down under the covers.

"Ray?"

He rolled onto his back and exhaled at the ceiling. "Yes, Fraser?"

"Were you really wearing mascara?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I was wearing eyeliner."

"Because I like mascara, Ray."

"Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"Shut the fuck up."

* * *

Ray opened one eye and found himself looking right at Dief. "You wanna go out?" he asked.

Dief licked his nose.

Ray crawled out of bed and found some jeans and his sneakers. "Crazy wolf," he said, and grabbed a couple Ziplock bags before taking Dief down to the street.

It was cold enough out for him to see his breath, and he shivered in his undershirt and jeans. "Hurry it up, Dief," he said, and thought about getting back inside and crawling in next to warm sleepy Fraser.

"Hey," Fraser said, in his ear.

Ray jumped. "Fraser!" Fraser, damn him, had had the sense to put on a coat. "Didn't know you were up."

Fraser handed him a cup of coffee. "It's only instant," he said. "From the microwave."

"Better than hot tap water," said Ray, sipping the coffee. Fraser must've found the M&amp;M's, because he could taste the chocolate. Dief sniffed a lamppost intently. "Thanks. I was freezing my ass off."

Fraser shoved his hands down into the pockets of his coat. "I would never allow that to happen, Ray."

 

"That's what I love about you, Fraser," said Ray. "The way you keep my ass out of trouble."

Fraser shoved his hands deeper into the pockets and his eyes crinkled around the edges, but he didn't answer.

Dief conducted business with the lamppost.

"I want to see Jesus Alvarado today," Ray said. "Find out about the guys who were hassling him."

"Fine," Fraser said. "I will need to be at the Consulate until two this afternoon. Shall I stop by the station afterwards?"

"Call my cellphone and I'll pick you up."

"Thank you, Ray."

"Let's go get ready for work."

Ray bumped Fraser with his shoulder several times on their way back up to the apartment, and every time, it made the lines around Fraser's eyes crinkle up.

Ray decided he liked crinkly eyes on Fraser.

* * *

"Alvarado," Ray said, leaning against the door. "Hey, Alvarado, listen to me."

"Fuck off!"

"Those guys hassling you? I wanna talk to you about 'em. Maybe I can help."

"Yeah, right."

"Ah, come on. Look, you talk to me, maybe I get a warrant for their arrest. Maybe I can talk to the State Attorney's office, try to help your friend Luis."

Jesus Alvarado yanked the door open and Ray nearly fell inside. "Why won't you go away?" asked Jesus, pointing a gun at Ray's forehead.

Ray raised his hands slowly. "You know Tony and Sandor?" he asked.

Jesus rolled his eyes. "*Everybody* knows Tony and Sandor. Nobody in this city don't know Tony and Sandor."

 

"You ask them about me, OK? You ask them about Ray Vecchio."

"So you're saying you're cool."

"I'm cool," said Ray.

Jesus lowered the gun. "It's not loaded," he said, and handed it to Ray. "I can't be too careful, you know?"

"I can't keep letting you go if you keep threatening me," Ray said, checking that the gun was empty and the safety on.

"Yeah, well, sorry."

"So you gonna tell me about the guys hassling you?"

Jesus stepped aside to let Ray into the apartment. "Yeah, I guess. Have a seat."

Ray sat.

"These guys, Williams and Hudson, they're from work. They keep saying they will kill me, they will fuck me in the ass until I scream. I told Luis, he says, tell the police. I tell the police, the police say they can't do nothing. So Luis says he'll take care of it."

"So he goes out and breaks some laws to do that."

"I'm not telling."

"Right. So they're doing this at work?"

"At work, and they follow me home. That's why I got the gun. I never had no gun before this mess. Luis taught me how to use it." He shook his head. "To you police, it's always 'Are you important enough for us to give a fuck?' and 'Let the faggots get killed, they deserve it.'"

"Not always," said Ray. "Not to all of us. Some cops suck. Some cops don't."

"Yeah, well." Jesus looked down for a moment. "You really think you can help?"

"Yeah. I really think I can help."

* * *

The crazy-ass bomber was kicking the table in the interview room. Ray glared at her. "Would you quit that?" He indicated his notebook. "I am already seriously pissed off at you, and I want to get this over with. If I can't read my writing, my sister gets to read it, and then all hell breaks loose because that girl cannot read."

"And whose fault is that?" She kicked the table again, her bound feet thumping against the bottom.

Why did he always get the nutjobs? He slammed his fist down on the table, hard enough to make her jump. "Mine. It's my fault for beating her up every time she stuck her nose in a book. Now will you shut up unless I ask you a question?"

He chewed on his toothpick and looked at his notes, then at the two-way mirror. Fraser was on the other side. He narrowed his eyes and imagined Fraser nodding at him. "So," he said, "Miss Brownstone--"

"Bronstein. Leona Bronstein."

"Anyway. Miss Bronstein. I just want to make sure I have this straight."

She kicked the table again.

He decided to ignore it. "Right. You're a Marxist anarchist who objects to academics."

"No."

"That's what you said."

"I said I'm a quasi-Marxist anarchist with strong populist tendencies."

"That's rather a specialized worldview. You got a party affiliation or something?"

"No. And I object to ivory-tower academic Marxism. You ever *talk* to these people? They grow up rich and they do this shit to *rebel*. All they want to talk about is What Happened in Russia and Whether We Should Bother To Teach Our Children About Mass Culture."

Ray eyed her skeptically. "And because of this you try to bomb a conference about..." He flipped through his notebook. "About Historical Perspectives on the House Un-American Activities Committee."

"Yes."

"Look, I'm with you," he said. "The system's fucked, I got it, but this is going to help how?"

"These people have never had the electricity turned off because they can't pay the bill. They've never seen their parents work two jobs each just to keep one kid in shoes."

"Poverty sucks. What's your point?"

"That they need to be taught a lesson!"

"And killing them would accomplish that."

"Yes."

"And they'd learn what?"

"That we need ACTION, not talk! Action! That all this talking and posturing is doing nothing!"

"But they'd be dead."

"So?"

"So dead people don't learn anything."

"So?"

Ray looked down at his notebook, and then back at Leona Bronstein. "Excuse me just a minute," he said, and left her to go talk to Fraser.

"Frase," he said, "call a shrink, will you? I think this one's gone around the bend." He looked through the mirror at her. "At least she hasn't tried to bite me yet."

"Biting really seems to be more the purview of white supremacists and libertarians, Ray."

"'Purview'. What is it with you and words?" He sighed and rolled his head, trying to stretch out the kinks in his neck. "Did you ever notice that we get all the weird ones here, Fraser? Until I took over for Vecchio, I had these nice normal cases." He felt warm fingers on the back of his neck and dropped his head forward. "You know. An arson. A robbery. Someone clonked an old lady on the head. Now I got radical bombers and ghost ships and voodoo in my life."

"I can't explain it, Ray." Fraser's fingers were in his hair now, petting the ends of it softly.

In the interview room, Leona managed to knock her chair backwards and hit the floor with a bang and a clatter.

"Duty calls," said Fraser, pulling his hand back. Ray groaned and went back into the room.

* * *

"Ray!"

Ray turned around. "Hey, Stella."

She walked up to him and crossed her arms. "What did you do to Williams and Hudson?"

"Nothing."

"Ray, don't lie to me."

"I'm not."

She shook her head. "I know you better than that. They called my office today and asked if we could drop the charges against Clemente. Said it was a friendly sparring session that got out of hand."

"Really. How about that."

"They're lying, Ray. I want to know why."

Ray scratched the back of his head. "It's possible that I know about some rumors that might be spreading."

"It's possible."

Ray looked at his boots. "I got no control over the vast gossip mill that is pizza delivery men, Stell."

She drummed her fingers on her arm.

"OK, so maybe I told someone that a couple of guys had some unsavory practices involving children."

"And?"

"And dogs."

"And?"

"And maybe I suggested he let people know. Including the boss of the couple of guys, to whom he delivers pizza, unless the couple of guys agreed to quit what they were doing that was so unsavory."

Stella leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Ray, that's blackmail."

Ray grinned at her. "What's blackmail? I see no blackmail."

"You couldn't let it go." She sighed and shook her head. "OK, but this is the last time I cover for you on something like this, Ray. I mean it." She turned around and walked away.

"You are not covering!" he called after her. "I cover my own ass, Stella! You are not covering me on this one! Stella! STELL--aw, hell." He kicked a scrap of paper that was crumpled on the floor. "Jesus hates me," he said, to no one.

* * *

Fraser and Ray and Diefenbaker went back to Ray's apartment, where Fraser promptly got into an argument with Dief about the relative merits of "Casablanca" and "Psycho". Apparently the wolf was a Hitchcock fan and Fraser favored Bogie.

Ray left them to it and turned on some music to dance to. Dancing was good.

After a few minutes, he noticed Fraser and Dief had stopped arguing and were looking at him.

"What are you doing, Ray?" asked Fraser.

"Dancing," Ray said. "You know how to dance?"

"Yes. Not as well as you do, of course, but--"

Ray grabbed him and began dancing him backwards. "Then shut up and dance, Fraser."

"I can talk and dance at the same time," said Fraser.

"Yeah, OK. Talk about what?"

"Oh, I don't know. What shall we do in bed tonight?"

Ray stopped dancing, his mouth open, and stared at Fraser. "Was that a come-on?"

"You're the detective," said Fraser. "You figure it out." And then Fraser leaned in and kissed him, mouth warm and hard and tongue strong and wet against him, and Ray laughed and kissed him back.

Sometimes, life was good.

* * *

  
The End. 


End file.
